


to both eat well

by Adrieunor



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blacksmithing, Cult buddies, F/M, Friendship, Gen, It gets nipped in the bud, Male-Female Friendship, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Mandalorian Lore, One-Sided Relationship, Other, and they were ROOMMATES, food as a love language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28350135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrieunor/pseuds/Adrieunor
Summary: To eat with your tribe is to be loved and protected, and to love and protect in turn.----Din Djarin and the Way: as told from the perspective of another Mandalorian. Non-liner, S1-oriented, with liberties. Also known as: Din Djarin gets adopted and eventually has a nice day.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Original Character(s), Din Djarin & Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin/Healthy Life Style Habits, Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	to both eat well

**Author's Note:**

> Narrator is an apprenticed armorer (fool) who ends up making all those whistling birds Din Djarin uses (in excess, she’d argue.) 
> 
> Completely disregards S2, and picks and chooses what it wants from canon lore. I strongly think Din Djarin needs a friend who will look at his life style and go, “bitch, you live like this??”
> 
> Does revolve around a faith (The Way), what would constitute cultural practices for a fictional group, and food-- so if food-talk is not your thing, I won’t mind if you skip this one. No beta, because fuck man, just take it.

The beroya has a name. You know it, that knowledge floats somewhere in the back of your mind, as light and as useful to you as dust and fine spiderwebs. His name holds little distinction, as memorable as the names of the rats the foundlings catch and train for pets; the same level of import to you, which is to say: very little. 

Vizsla speaks it, more than once. But you always remember Vizsla’s cadence more than his words. The barely hidden sneer in his voice. 

There are many who consider Vizsla too rough, his bulk as intimidating as his temper. 

Succinctly: an asshole. 

Which, to be fair, you don’t deny. But you also think he’s just got a lot of – _ness_ to him, with no place for it to go down below in the tunnels. A heavy infantry like Vizsla is meant to win _wars_ , but there are no wars to be won and the tunnels only stretch so far for his presence. 

You understand, at least in part; if you were displaced outside your forge, tossed above ground where the expanse is simply unending, you’d be an asshole too. 

A tunnel baby like you has no place above ground, leave it for the infantry like Paz Vizsla or the hunters, like—

Well. Anyway. 

So you like that about Paz Vizsla, for all his – _ness_ it’s the right kind of stuff; his intentions are in the right place, most of the time, even if his words are as blunt as his fists. 

Which might be why you end up, out of all the mando in the tribe, to sit beside him at meal times. 

Which also means you end up, out of all the mando in the tribe, to listen to him gripe.

Paz does not suffer in silence, he’d sooner let someone else suffer the brunt of his frustrations. The tribe has learned to let it be you, as Paz would only dare to raise a hand at one of the few individuals who knows how to service his armor.

He speaks it again, spoken lowly in the gathering hall, his helm ducking in deference to the old matron who serves tonight. You know better than to hold the line up, serving Vizsla a generous helping, two and a half ladles, before passing the ladle to him.

“A quarter,” you say, and he hesitates—“I’ll get more after this.”

That’s enough that he obliges. The ladle’s handle is so small, dainty, in his hand as he scrapes its lip against the rim of your bowl to catch the drips before returning it to the pot. You eye it for a moment—it was good enough, but it could be better.

(A tribe the size of yours hardly needs two blacksmiths at once in the forge; you wouldn’t dare voice it to your teacher, but you’re growing _bored_.)

You finish your thanks first and, before he’s lifted his head from his own, you’ve already placed the small bowl of red flakes by his hand. Vizsla grunts, rapping his knuckles against the table— _my thanks to your consideration._

You tilt to your right, letting your helm brush against his arm— _you’re welcome_ —before your hands move to lift it from your head. The soft release of a valve and Vizsla’s buy’ce settles besides yours on the table.

The beroya had come that day, dropping off another fistful of meager credits to Teacher. Paz, because he was Paz, had shouldered into him in the entryway to the forge. Words had been exchanged, blades had been brandied, and your Teacher had, once again, interrupted another fight between two grown men.

And now Paz was taking it out on his food, which, by its glaring color, had already seen a generous fistful of spice in the kitchens.

“You don’t like him.” It’s not meant to be more than a passing comment, your thoughts more tangled with the fragrant, savory grains before you, but you’ve gone and poked the bantha—sigh.

Who had cooked today? Vox? Roe? Either mando always took to heart _heat_ when it was their turn. Too far, maybe, but you’d be teased mercilessly if you voiced this. It’s been years since you ate from the children’s pot.

(You spare a thought for the considerably lighter, fragrant stew that had bubbled next to the adult’s. It had looked good. You like a savory, sweet porridge, but you like preserving your pride more.)

Your fork scrapes against the wooden plate. Could you sneak another drink, or would it be too telling?

“He is _arrogant_ ,” your vod grouses. “He’s been on the surface too long and thinks himself above the rest of us.”

The bite of his words is lessened by his sniffles. You pass your cloth to him, and he blows into it messily. You won’t be asking for that one back.

“A mando who will not sit to sha’kajir does not consider us tribe.”

Speak of ill tidings and they will arrive. No, you amend, that’s not very fair, is it?

The beroya enters the room and, like hands clasping over little ears, the voices of the hall lessen to a murmur. If he cares, he doesn’t show it, not in the tilt of his buy’ce or the set of his shoulders.

He walks a straight path towards the simmering pots over the fire; no one gestures to him in greeting and he makes none. He serves himself, bypassing the Matron who had stood to regard him. A single ladle of hot grains, a comically small portion compared to your companion’s own serving.

He turns. No one moves to offer him seating, though there’s plenty.

The beroya strides out, his cape flutters before he disappears around the doorway. Not once had his unadorned helmet bothered to look left or right.

A beat passes before the hall returns to its rumbling conversations. You fold your hands into your lap, meal forgotten, as your eyes slide from the empty doorway back to your plate of yellow and orange.

“Is it arrogance? Or devotion?”

Vizsla breathes in sharply. You’re not sure in response to your question or to clear his sinuses.

You press on, fingertips to fingertips as you speak to your plate, “Is it not our Creed? Perhaps he holds what is sacred only to an audience of himself.”

Even from your own mouth, you find it a lonely notion.

You’ve heard outsiders think that never means _never_ —but, then, how would you _eat_?

What stronger way for warriors to grow closer, outside of battle, than this? Your weapons forged in fire, the food that fills your belly warmed by the same flame.

How could one build and solder and _mend_ bonds if not through the intimacy of _eating well_? Bare one’s proverbial neck and trust that your company would protect you at your vulnerable, commune with you to eat and be strong?

Sha’kajir is trust, is sacred no matter how plain the fare. To eat with your tribe is to be loved and protected, and to love and protect in turn.

_Thank you for attending to my needs, thank you for letting me grow strong in your company._

You probe, cautiously, “What does it mean for a mando to eat in private—where the only time he can remove his helmet in the company of others, he abstains?" You break decorum, plain words sound best now, when you wish to speak plain truths: "Isn’t it… isn’t it lonely, don’t you think?”

(Who does he thank if alone? Who lets him grow strong, if only just him?)

“Then he thinks his own company better than his kin,” Paz decides, pushing his plate away.

You turn your head, and you don’t need a mirror or a visor to know your own expression is pitying; the love you hold for the Way is made from the same sinews and muscles that love your people—your eyes, no doubt large and dark the way Paz despises, go to his jaw, his ear. The intimacy of looking into his eyes—the thought of it alone!—you wouldn’t dare in such a communal space.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

You watch the ear twitch as the jaw clenches and your eyes slide away, downwards.

The beroya walks an adherence to the Creed stricter than even your own leader, adherence unheard of to the point of isolating—alienating, ostracizing. It scratches at your thoughts in a way your vod are unwilling to address (how strange for normally direct people!).

“What should make him sacred only makes him more profane in your eyes, then.” Your stomach turns, the food does not agree with you. And you’re not sure you agree with your own thoughts.

Your rumination is broken by a snort, Paz folding his own large hands in front of his empty plate. “You sound like your buir.”

You recognize it for what it is: conceding. Your friend will not push this with you, not when you’ve barely touched your food. Your hand comes to hover over your forgotten spoon, and you murmur the words that always come when nothing else is enough. “This is the Way.”

“Eat,” Paz says, nudging you, “Eat and be well, vod.”

* * *

Paz Vizsla is gone now.

Away, somewhere. To the winds—if he lives.

If he’s gone—no, you squash the thought before it continues. You did not see his helmet among the piles, no sight of a dark blue cuirass fallen by the wayside of the tunnels.

He would not like you so unsure.

You need to be strong.

* * *

Teacher grasps the back of your helmet, bringing your foreheads together in a bruising clunk. 

“Ad’ika,” she says, and she hardly gives time for you to suck in the shuddering, wet and wretched gasp that tears from your throat, “Go, go with him.” 

This isn’t your teacher, nor your armorer. This is _buir_ —her voice as familiar as hammer to anvil, for all that it wrecks your heart into a mangled heap now. 

“No, no, no.” You shake your head, scraping temple to temple, beskar to beskar, but you do not break her grip. You cannot, for how tightly her leathered hands grasp your helm. “I will not leave you— _I’m not finished_ —” 

“Ad’ika, _you are mine_ —”

There’s a ringing in your ears and someone is crying, like a lost foundling. Like a _child_. It might be you. It can’t be. You haven’t been a child in so long now. Not since your first blade, your first kit-- you’re spiraling. 

You cannot hear all that she is saying over your own protests. 

“—made you in my image, and you will not end here.” Buir snarls, fisting the thick weave covering your shoulder, “You will listen to me, I _command_ it.” 

“I don’t want to go-”

“I unname you.” 

Three words so cleanly severing you at the neck, you nearly buckle to the ground if not for her hold. 

Buir breathes, one great breath of calamity and resolution. 

“I release you. Your hammer your own. Your fire your own.”

She taps her helmet once more to yours, gentle despite her fierce grip, before her fingers loosen. 

“Leave me.” 

* * *

You climb into the boat, limbs stiff and spirit shaken. Shock. You must be in shock. Nothing else can describe surely the ice that’s settled into your stomach. Your beskar has never felt cold before, not once, not ever. 

It freezes you now, despite the heat that surrounds you. 

Your mastery should have been spectacle, celebrated by your covert. 

Your severing – your exile – should have been private, the end of your bond held in silence. 

Instead, it was witnessed by outsiders, who awkwardly shuffle and part way for you. Ignorant to what they’ve witnessed, blind to the turmoil that nearly burns you inside your own armor. 

_Din Djarin_ will not look at you. 

The only thing that stops you from jumping into the lava is the dishonor it’d bring to your beskar. 

* * *

Later, later, later: 

He only asks, once. When it’s just you and him, awake. The foundling, asleep. Turning in his seat, he looks at you for the first time. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been held in his attention, not once, not ever. His fingers flex, like they’d rather hold a blade or a blaster than whatever conversation he’s ramping up to speak. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“With you?” 

The unembellished helm tips forward. 

You turn your head. “No.” 

He doesn’t ask again. You stand from your seat and go down below. 

* * *

You don’t remember what you do. 

It’s only with a jolt that you find yourself staring at an open panel, plainly marked boxes of rations stacked neatly side by side. Wherever your spirit had gone, its dumped itself back into your armor. 

The Razor Crest moves underneath your feet. It must be subtle, but for someone who has lived their entire life below in the tunnels, it’s jarring enough that you feel unsteady. You bite your cheek and brace yourself, this will not be what breaks you.

There’s no way to tell the passing of time on the ship, but your helmet’s display tells you hours have passed since your narrow escape. 

You should feel hunger, feel something, but you’re hollowed out and only routine keeps you climbing up the ladder to the beroya—Din Djarin.

The foundling coos at the sight of you, but his father shows no other sign than the tapping of his fingers against the ship’s controls.

“We need to eat.”

Seconds pass and you think he’s choosing to ignore you, before his voice breaks the silence. “There’s food below.”

“Yes,” you say, tilting you head, “I found it. Will you… Will you share food with me?”

The words sound awkward, stilted out of your mouth.

“Take what you need.” Djarin lifts a hand, a wave, and you press your lips tightly together—you’ve never…you’ve never had to ask before, like this.

“You misunderstand.” Your fingers curl into your palms, but you will not clench them, despite the roiling in your stomach. Hunger or nerves, you’re lightheaded. “Will you sit and eat well with me, vod?”

Djarin stills in his movements, as if he was not already so still before. You imagine it has been a very long time since anyone has called him so familiarly, not with the wide berth he is given below. He turns, slowly, and regards you.

You don’t know him well enough to read him; you can’t decipher what the tilt of his helm means, or the way his fingers flex before he looks somewhere to your left.

“I’ll… I’ll eat later.”

Oh.

Your stomach twists, painfully, but your mouth is dry as ashes. Okay.

Any longer in this shared space, in your humiliation, and you might fold—and you are not brittle, you are not made of weaker metals.

You turn, dismissed.

No murmuring conversation. No crackling flame. No gentle hiss of helmets being placed respectfully side by side. Just the one, just your own, set beside you.

Sitting on the floor with your legs crossed, in the hull of the ship—the belly of a beast that takes you farther and farther away from all you’ve ever known—you are, for the first time in your life, alone. 

Fingertips to your lips, you close your eyes. If your eyes prickle, sting, you can pretend it’s from the spices you’re imagining.

When you open your eyes, vision only a little blurry, the meal is still the same. The reconstituted food is plain, the portion meager and colorless. You think of the mandalorian in the upper deck, and you recognize, now, the hesitancy in his voice at the offer you’d extended.

Din Djarin who has, to your knowledge, never taken his helmet off—eating alone, being alone, surrounded by a community but still singular. Still solitary.

Still strong, in spite of it all.

Lonely, but devout. Profane, but still Mandalorian.

(Firm in his hold to protect a foundling, but unsure of whether he trusts you, when you call him kin.)

You can respect that spirit, even if you don’t fully understand.You must, if you want to live. 

Above in the cockpit, you know he can’t hear you--let alone your thoughts.

You thank him, anyway, and eat.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on tumblr @adrieunor


End file.
